


A Janitor's Tale

by PenguinofProse



Series: Season 7 speculation [5]
Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: F/M, Inside man Bellamy, Janitor Bellamy, Mount Weather references, So many Mount Weather references, undercover bellamy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-26
Updated: 2020-06-26
Packaged: 2021-03-03 22:08:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,097
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24932782
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PenguinofProse/pseuds/PenguinofProse
Summary: What if Bellamy went undercover as a janitor on Bardo? Lots of season 2 parallels. Featuring minor Levtavia, if you squint.
Relationships: Bellamy Blake/Clarke Griffin, Minor Octavia Blake/Levitt
Series: Season 7 speculation [5]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1783594
Comments: 14
Kudos: 93





	A Janitor's Tale

**Author's Note:**

> What if Bellamy goes undercover as a janitor on Bardo, and that's the reason for the blurry photo of him shaven in a white outfit? Huge thanks to the lovely Twitter user who gave me this idea. Happy reading!

Bellamy is tired.

He's tired of being the inside man, tired of cleaning bathrooms. He's tired of fretting about Octavia and Clarke and Echo while he's in the field and ought to have his head in the game.

Most of all he's just _tired_ , bone-weary, would do anything for a decent night's sleep in a real bed. Curling up in cleaning closets to grab a nap and hoping he won't be found simply isn't cutting it for him, after all these weeks. He's getting too old for this, and is beginning to think that a quiet retirement to a peaceful cottage with Clarke might be just the thing.

Somehow, in these fleeting daydreams, it is always Clarke who shares his home, not Echo – even though Clarke doesn't strike him as the quiet-life-in-a-cottage type.

He stifles a yawn and keeps mopping. He shouldn't complain, he knows. He's still breathing, and he's still inside the bunker on Bardo, hopefully well-placed to be able to save his sister before too long. He ought to be grateful for everything Levitt has done, finding him these clothes and helping him out with his mission to hide in plain sight until such time as he can figure out a way to free Octavia.

That's taking him a while.

Clarke would be proud of him, he thinks. He hasn't rushed into trouble here and made a mess of things. No, he has sat back to learn what he can, to make his plans, safe in the knowledge that his sister will be unharmed as long as she remains useful to the people of Bardo.

Levitt, it turns out, is rather less patient.

"How much longer are we going to wait?" He hisses, as he approaches Bellamy in the corridor. "When are we making our move?"

Bellamy is annoyed by that question. They can't make their move, because they haven't yet got the faintest idea what their _move_ is going to be. He's practising using his head, and this overenthusiastic new friend who has taken a liking to his sister is a bit of a liability.

"We shouldn't be talking out in the open." He whispers back, under the cover of handing over a bottle of bleach.

"Meet at the closet on level five at lights out?" Levitt murmurs.

Bellamy thinks that this man has probably watched too many old Earth spy movies.

All the same, he nods in weary agreement, and gets back to his mopping.

…...

Bellamy has a lot of experience of donning someone else's uniform and hoping for the best, by now, between this and Mount Weather, his ticket to the dropship and the Sanctum guards. He thinks it's the closest thing to a career or a job description he will ever have, probably.

It has almost been too easy, on this occasion. Anders thought he had sent Bellamy to Etherea, as part of what he now realises was a staged death scene, but Levitt brought him back through the Bridge, desperate for any help he could offer in protecting Octavia. And from there it was only a matter of borrowing a spare janitor's uniform – easily obtained, now Levitt is a janitor himself – and shaving, and rearranging his hair a little.

He even has a white cap, not dissimilar to the tan one he wore jammed down over his forehead in Mount Weather.

He moves differently from he did in Mount Weather, though. Then, he was playing the part of a guard – a man with status, with the right to hold his head up high as he strode down the corridors. Now he's slipping back into the skin of a janitor, recalling what it was like on the Ark all those years ago. It is easy to remember to move with an exhausted, slouching shuffle – that comes all too naturally to him, tired as he is. But he is out of the habit of averting his eyes every time anyone of importance walks by. He has to remember to keep his gaze dull and uninterested, must take care to skulk in corners rather than being out in the open as if he owns the place.

A janitor is a good disguise, he discovers. He's only played pretend at being a guard, before now, but this is better in some ways. People say things in front of janitors, as if they were part of the furniture rather than a living, breathing human being. He catches Anders talking about trying to lure Clarke to Bardo and break her with the footage of Bellamy's supposed death – while he is right there. He hears Octavia's new MCAP operator say that she has a long and complicated story, and she will be useful to them for a good few weeks yet.

…...

Levitt is at the closet before Bellamy that night. It's just as well – it would look bad for them to arrive together. Even if no one is suspicious as to Bellamy's true identity, he spent enough time as a janitor on the Ark to know that societies do not like it, in general, when their menial labourers start getting together to brew revolution. Having people see them hanging out would be a recipe for trouble.

"How was your day? The toilets on floor seven are leaking and I've been up to my ankles in shit since lunch time." Bellamy says, a little too loudly, for the benefit of anyone who might be listening in.

No one is listening in. His crude comment is met by silence. Not a single soul steps forth to tell him that they do not expect such rudeness from the cleaning staff.

"Great. We're alone." He hisses to Levitt. "What did you want to talk about?"

"Octavia." Levitt says, as if it is the most obvious thing in the world. Good God, does this man have a crush.

That thought makes Bellamy miss Lincoln, somehow.

"She's OK. The guy who's working with her in MCAP was telling another white-coat they're still weeks off finishing with her."

"And she's not resisting? She could get hurt if she resists."

"She's cooperating. She thinks I'm dead." Bellamy reminds him, quite unnecessarily and rather mournfully.

"We need a plan." Levitt says for, perhaps, the hundredth time.

"I _know_ we need a plan." Bellamy hisses. "I'm working on it."

It's a lie. _Working on it_ implies that he's making progress. What he's really doing is worrying about it, and wishing Clarke were here.

Only he's not really wishing that, of course, because if Clarke were here she'd be in serious trouble. And he knows that he would drop his common sense in a heartbeat to rush in there and save her.

…...

He's always had bad luck, so when the next catastrophe hits, it doesn't even surprise him. There he is, dusting Anders' office and going unseen, as he hears the news.

"Hostiles spotted on level four." A voice crackles over the radio. "I repeat, intruders on level four."

Anders swears and reaches for the radio. "Who are they?"

"Hope Diyoza and two others. They look like some of the people in Miss Blake's memories – Echo kom Azgeda? Gabriel Santiago?"

Bellamy doesn't drop his duster. He keeps his face as blank as possible – although hiding his feelings has never been his strong suit.

It doesn't take a genius to work out what Echo's doing here, he frets. Damn her, and damn her senseless loyalty. Of course she came looking for him, whether he wanted her to or not. And Hope will be here looking for her mother, presumably, and for Octavia.

Why Gabriel should be here is a mystery to him, but then again, Gabriel always did seem quite mysterious.

It doesn't take him long to figure out what the trio's next move will be, either, even as he ostensibly concentrates on dusting a hideous statuette of Albert Einstein. Presumably they will go looking for their lost loved ones, and Octavia will be the easiest to find. And then, when they have found her, she will tell them that she watched him die.

This complicates things.

It was hard enough when he had one person to look out for – one person who was useful to the enemy, and therefore more or less safe, for now. But now he has Echo to worry about, too, who has a remarkable talent for getting herself mixed up in conflict.

…...

When another call comes through to the office, scarcely ten minutes later, telling them that Octavia's MCAP operator has been found dead, Bellamy knows exactly who killed him.

He is about to excuse himself from cleaning the office on some vague pretext, desperate to go look for his friends and see what he can do to get them out of here and limit the damage, when a new call comes in, saying that Diyoza is on the loose.

This is chaos, pure and simple. Bellamy may not have had much of a plan to start with, but one thing he is sure of – _this_ is not the plan. Not even vaguely.

He needs to get out of here, and go find his sister and Echo.

"Excuse me, sir. May I take my break now?" He keeps his face lowered, puts on a drawling accent. It is a miracle that Anders has not worked out who he is yet – but then again, that's proof that no one pays much attention to janitors.

Anders is half way through nodding when a new message comes in.

"Sir. Sir, we need all troops mobilised. Intruders in the stone room."

"More of them?" Anders is usually the epitome of icy composure, in Bellamy's experience, but right now he looks anything but calm.

"Yes sir. Scramble all troops. It's Clarke Griffin and four others. Armed."

Bellamy panics at that. There is no other word for it. He could deal with his sister being here, just about. She wasn't in danger yet, and he and Levitt were working on it. And yeah, sure, he felt a twinge in his stomach when he heard that Echo had come looking for him – but that is nothing compared to the raw fear simmering in his belly at the news that Clarke has just walked into danger.

Somehow, protecting Clarke will always be his chief concern.

"May I take that break, sir?" He barely manages to cling to his fake accent, just about remembers to keep his face hidden by the peak of his cap.

Anders waves a hand, already giving orders to his troops over the radio.

Bellamy walks slowly to the door, with careful control. Even when he makes it into the corridor, he limits himself to a brisk amble. He cannot march, nor jog. He is a janitor – to move like a soldier would be tantamount to painting a target on his own back.

For a moment, he regrets this unobtrusive disguise. When masquerading as a guard, before now, he could at least _act_ like a guard. Guards have power – they have the right to move with purpose and get things done. If he were a guard right now, he could sprint towards Clarke, no questions asked.

As it is, he collects a mop and bucket, and shuffles towards the stone room as quickly as he thinks he can get away with.

"Where are you going?" A guard stops him, abruptly, one level away from his destination.

"Cleaning the stone room, sir. Heard there was some blood spilled, sir."

"Very good." The guard nods, a cruel sneer on his face. "You might need a bigger bucket."

That has Bellamy's heart racing, but he keeps up his calm stroll. Why would the guard be joking like that? Is he trying to suggest that all the intruders have already been killed, in the few short minutes he has spent moving so agonisingly slowly towards the scene of the trouble?

Is Clarke already dead, without him ever having dared to articulate why it is that he would do anything to protect her?

She's not, as it turns out. The blood staining the floor is not hers – it belongs to the assortment of guards who lie dead about the cluster of his friends.

He has never been so glad to see familiar faces in his life.

Without regard for his dignity – or his disguise – he drops his bucket, water sloshing all over the floor and diluting the red stains out over an ever larger area. And then he strides over to Clarke, and pulls her into a fierce and rather desperate hug.

To her credit, she doesn't seem at all surprised to be hugged so firmly by a strange janitor. Apparently she is capable of recognising him even in the oddest of circumstances. She hugs him back, hard, and rests her face against his neck for just a moment.

"I'm so happy to see you're OK." She whispers fervently.

"I'm good. I'm fine." It's not quite the truth – he's exhausted and panicking, but he's better than he was mere seconds ago, before he hugged Clarke.

"Where are the others?"

"I don't know. I've been keeping an eye on O but then – things got out of hand. Echo showed up a few minutes ago and killed a load of their guards. She thinks I'm dead. They all do."

Clarke doesn't even bat an eyelid. "You're not dead, and that's what matters. What now?"

He was rather hoping she would have an answer to that. "We have to find a way to save our friends. A way that doesn't kill everyone." This is certainly feeling like Mount Weather all over again.

She nods, all briskness and business. "Do you know where their command centre is?"

"Yeah. The perks of being a janitor."

Without further ado, he starts to lead the way down the corridor, Clarke by his side and the others hot on their heels. He's expecting trouble along the way, of course, and sure enough, there are guards stationed just around the first corridor.

Before he can quite work out what is happening, Clarke has a knife to his throat.

Well, now. That's new.

"Don't shoot." She commands the half dozen guards. "Don't shoot, and the hostage lives."

The hostage. Right. His closest friend is using him as a fake hostage to get the guards to lay down their weapons. He has to admit, it's moments like this when he remembers that Clarke is something of a strategic genius.

Still weird, though, her having a knife to his throat.

He keeps his eyes downcast, the peak of his cap obscuring his face, and does his best to look like a lowly janitor. He hopes this will work – from what he's seen of the dirty underbelly of Bardo, he's not altogether convinced anyone would care about the wellbeing of a hostage janitor, but he supposes it is worth a try.

It works. To his surprise – and relief – it works, and the guards lay down their weapons.

…...

By the time they make it to the command centre, they haven't had to kill anyone. The hostage trick worked a couple of times, and knocking the guards out and hoping for the best worked when that failed.

But Bellamy doesn't dare to get his hopes up. He doesn't dare dream of that cottage, and that quiet life with Clarke.

"Miller, Niylah – stand guard." Clarke instructs them. "Raven, Jordan – we're going to need your help."

"What's the plan?" Raven asks.

Clarke bites her lip. "The plan is Mount Weather. But without three hundred deaths." She mutters, evidently unhappy with that idea.

Bellamy reaches a hand across the narrow space in between them, entwines his fingers with hers. That's what he does, when she needs something to hold onto. That's what he has always done for her.

"Tell us what we can do to help." He requests, tone as calming as he can manage.

Clarke nods, confidence apparently somewhat bolstered by his support. Good. That's what he was aiming for.

"We're going to offer them a choice. A real choice this time, not like Mount Weather. Raven, Jordan, I need you to work out how to open the doors. The air isn't breathable. And then we're going to offer them the chance to give our friends back, and live, and have our help expanding their bunker or maybe even settling new parts of Sanctum. Or if they don't like that deal, we open the doors and let the outside air in."

"And suffocate them all." Raven points out, not unkindly, but in tones of evident concern.

"But we won't have to. They'll take the deal." Bellamy speaks up, suddenly sure. "They will, trust me. I've seen these people. They're sick and tired of living under the ground. They're fighting a war over territory they're never going to win. If we offer them a deal to help expand their home peacefully, they'll take it."

"You're sure?" Clarke asks, looking him right in the eyes.

"As sure as I can be." He hedges, even as he is wondering whether this is one of those occasions when optimism might have won out over good sense.

Clarke still has hold of his hand, but no one seems to be objecting to that – least of all her. She keeps hold of it, in fact, as she heads for the radio and hits the call button.

"I need to speak to Anders. He's your leader, I hear." She says into the ether, lips fixed in a frown.

"Who is this?" The operative at the other end sounds confused and more than a little scared.

"This is Clarke Griffin. If you have any sense you'll get me Anders, now."

There is a moment's pause, and a few seconds of crackling noise. And then a voice Bellamy recognises all too well as the leader of Bardo starts to speak.

"Clarke Griffin?"

"Anders, I presume. We'd like to offer you a deal. You let our friends go – all of them – without further hostility, and we help you expand your home. There's more land on Sanctum than we need."

"Why would you offer that?" He asks, audibly suspicious.

"Because we're tired of fighting." Clarke says, sounding at least as exhausted as Bellamy feels. "If you've seen inside my friends' heads, you know we're good at fighting. You know that if you make enemies of us, your people will die. I could open the doors and suffocate your people right now. But I don't want to do that."

"You want to offer us farmland? You want us to be _friends_?" Anders spits, disbelieving.

"I wouldn't go that far. I just want to take my friends and go home safe." She admits, the slightest tremble to her voice. Bellamy is pretty sure he's the only person left alive in this universe who knows her well enough to hear that she's struggling to hold it together.

Anders is silent for a moment. Bellamy wishes he were here in person, not on the other end of the radio – he thinks he would feel less tense if he could see the enemy's facial expression.

At last, Anders speaks. "Clarke Griffin. The reports we heard were true, it seems. You may have your deal."

With that, Bellamy figures, he's safe to ditch his hated white peaked cap.

…...

The thing about a peace deal, it turns out, is that Bellamy doesn't get to retire to his little cottage right away. He doesn't even get a decent night's sleep right away – there are treaties to be written and signed at gunpoint, hostages to be handed over. At one point Anders tries to argue that Echo should stand trial for her crimes on Bardo, but Clarke talks him down.

That leaves Bellamy feeling slightly guilty and very confused, really. He's pretty sure he should be the one defending his girlfriend. But he doesn't want to, somehow. He can deal with the idea that she has killed people before now – many people, in fact, some of them his friends and loved ones – but he thought that she honestly believed she was doing it for good reasons. Even when they were on opposite sides, he can understand that she was killing _his_ people for the good of _her_ people. But killing that MCAP worker in cold blood? That is, it strikes him, the opposite of doing better.

And then it's quite difficult not to compare her to Clarke, isn't it? Clarke, who has the weight of the world on her shoulders, but still does everything in her power to minimise casualties.

Of course, that's not why he cares about Clarke so much. Not really. It's more her warmth, and her genuine humanity, and the way she makes him feel like a valuable individual, not like a worthless janitor.

He doesn't tell Echo any of this, because she's not an idiot. He can see it in her eyes, the moment she is ushered into the room with the others and takes in the nonexistent personal space between himself and Clarke. All the same, he does the right thing. He lets go of Clarke's hand, and pulls Echo into a hug.

"You're alive." She says, when she breaks away from his arms.

"Yeah." It's a less than useful answer, but he's not sure what else to say to her, just now.

"You're disappointed in me." She observes, filling in the blanks for him. "But that's OK. I get it. At least you're alive."

"Echo -"

"It's OK, Bellamy. Really. I disappointed you and showed you we're not right for each other, and that's on me." There is a sad twist to her mouth, but she's holding it together with visible effort. "Go back to Clarke. She just lost her mother – I think she needs you."

He nods, still somewhat lost for words, and watches Echo turn away to pull Hope into a hug.

…...

There is a festive atmosphere, when they all arrive back at Sanctum and eat together in the tavern. Bellamy is having a tough time eating – he's finding it less than practical, because he hasn't let go of Clarke's hand since the moment they left Bardo, but that's OK. He's too tired to feel very hungry, anyway.

Their companions leave to turn in for the night, a couple at a time. Gaia offers to take Madi back to the house first, which Bellamy is almost disappointed about. He'd like to get to know Clarke's daughter better, just as soon as he is awake enough to be able to think straight. Hope, Echo and Diyoza meander home as an unexpected but surprisingly well-suited family unit, and the others go their separate ways until only Clarke and Bellamy remain, side by side at the now-empty table.

Bellamy should have gone to bed hours ago. But however exhausted he might be, there is no way he is going to sacrifice so much as a second of sitting by Clarke's side and stroking his thumb over the back of her hand.

Apart from anything else, he doesn't have a bed, now. He's been sharing with Echo for years. So he supposes he'll be spending the night in some unsuitable storage closet or something, stuck in his role of janitor for a little longer, just as soon as Clarke calls it a day.

He tries to stifle a yawn, and fails.

"You should get some sleep." Clarke recommends, in a tone rather softer than her negotiating-with-the-enemy voice.

"I'm fine." He lies, because that seems easier than admitting that he doesn't have so much as a pillow to his name, right now.

"Come on." She stands, dragging him with her by the hand. "We're going home. You need to rest."

"Home?"

"I just meant – you could stay at the house with me. If you like. With us." She stammers, with a flash of nervousness he does not usually associate with her.

He pauses – and clearly he pauses a beat too long.

"There's a couch." She rushes to inform him, cheeks heating. "Lots of couches. If you don't want to – to share the bed. I could take a couch."

He swallows down nerves, swallows down disbelief that this is really happening, after a wait that has spanned centuries, and gets on with speaking some small fragment of the truth.

"I think we both need a decent night's sleep in a real bed after that, don't you?" He asks, not daring to look her in the eye.

"Yeah. Definitely. If that's – yeah."

"Then let's go home." Bellamy suggests, with a tentative smile.

They talk a lot, on the walk back to the house, but they don't talk _about_ anything, not really. They comment on the architecture of Sanctum, and discuss Levitt's plans to visit Octavia sometimes via the Bridge. They're still holding hands, but somehow that is one thing they do not mention.

The house is quiet by the time they arrive, most of the hallways shrouded in shadow. A couple of lights have been left on, just enough to show the way to Clarke's room. Bellamy has his suspicions that Miller and Jackson might have been behind that kind bit of forward planning.

And then they arrive at Clarke's room, and Bellamy stands there and takes in the sight of her bed.

He swallows, thickly. He's been dreaming about sharing Clarke's bed for longer than he cares to admit – longer than he really _can_ admit, without being cruel to Echo, he suspects – but now that the moment is finally here, he's not quite sure what to do. Apart from anything else, he wishes he was feeling more alert, wishes could stay awake long enough to steer things in a more overtly romantic direction.

But honestly, all he wants to do right now is collapse into those inviting covers and sleep.

He is tempted to turn to Clarke and ask what happens now. Asking her what the plan is has been his go-to move for quite some time, after all. But he figures that this is one occasion where that is not the right call.

He is too exhausted to think straight, and the relief of having everyone safely home seems to have blunted his wits. He admits defeat, and shrugs out of his hated janitor uniform. Hopefully he'll never have to wear such an unwelcome disguise again – he's optimistic that he might get to stop being either janitor or guard for a while, now, and get on with being simply _Bellamy_. He's only wearing boxers underneath, but he figures Clarke has seen worse. Maybe, if he's really lucky, his state of undress will give her a clue that he's hoping this won't be the most platonic sleepover of all time.

She follows his lead, at least on the clothing front, stripping off clothes with little self-consciousness until she's wearing only underwear and a vest that doesn't leave much to the imagination. She looks good – she looks _better_ than good. She looks at least a little bit like a dream, he thinks. But his eyelids are drifting closed, and he's worried he won't be able to do justice to the depth of his feelings for her if he tries to initiate a quick, exhausted screw right now.

With that, he reaches a decision. She's not going anywhere. They're safe now. Tonight, he's going to make it clear he cares about her, and then he's going to go the hell to sleep.

"Goodnight." He mutters, darting forward to press a kiss to her cheek. That's the best thing to do here, he reckons. It's openly affectionate, but it's not _demanding_. It shouldn't freak her out, if it turns out she hasn't been wanting this for centuries quite like he has.

"Night." She whispers, squeezing his hand one last time then turning to get under the sheets.

He hopes that was the right move. He _thinks_ it was the right move – but now he's having second thoughts. Did she expect something different, when she invited him back to her bed? If she was expecting something, will she take this as a rejection? Will she be hurt and embarrassed that he hasn't pressed for more than one tame little cheek kiss?

He gets into the bed, and stares at the ceiling for a couple of seconds, debating what to do.

In the end, he decides that honesty is the best policy – or at least, as much honesty as he dares.

"Come here." He invites her, opening his arms and reaching towards her.

She closes the distance between them without hesitation, cuddling right into his chest. Well, then. That's encouraging, he figures.

"I'm so relieved you're safe." She murmurs against his skin. "I can't imagine what Octavia and Echo went through, thinking you were dead."

"I'm OK. I'm right here." He swallows thickly. "I'm happy to have you home in one piece too. More than you know. I don't think I could face losing you again."

"I could say the same to you. I was so scared when we found out you were missing. It was horrible, trying to put a brave face on it for the others while we went to get you."

"You don't have to do that any more." He whispers, hoping she can tell that it's a solemn promise. He doesn't want her to have to act strong while the world is ending ever again.

They lie there in silence for a moment, holding each other tight. Bellamy cannot help but think back to the aftermath of other undercover missions he has known, and Mount Weather in particular. They've come a long way, he thinks, since the time she kissed him on the cheek and left him all those years ago.

That's what gives him the courage to try one last bit of bravery before he surrenders to sleep.

"It's a good bed you've got here. When we've caught up on some sleep, we could find out what else it's good for." He suggests, tone as light as he can manage.

She laughs, smothering giggles against his chest. He thinks that the sound of her happiness, muffled against his naked skin, might just be his new favourite noise in the world.

"I thought you'd never ask." She tells him, pressing a gentle kiss to his collarbone.

Well, then. That's that settled.

There's just one problem, he thinks. This house is a little on the large side to truly be called a quaint cottage. But he supposes that, as long as Clarke's here, and he can hang up his inside man mask for good, it will do well enough for a retirement home.

That's his last coherent thought before sleep claims him.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading!


End file.
